


handlebar mustaches and chinstrap beards

by scribblemetimbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Relationship, Robin Buckley & Billy Hargrove Friendship, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22139176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemetimbers/pseuds/scribblemetimbers
Summary: “My goodness!” Aunt Caroline says, squeezing and pinching Robin’s cheeks. “You look so beautiful! So much like me!”“Thanks,” Robin manages to force out, and it’s almost rote at this point: Robin, you’ve put on weight, you look so beautiful, you look likeme, and Robin internally sighs because the next in that order, without fail and with much feeling, is:“So! Any boys?” Aunt Caroline asks brightly.Fuck.“Hundreds,” Robin says blandly.“Robin!”-In which Robin's meddling, match-making relative is in town to trample over boundaries like a rampaging bull, Steve chooses the worst moments ever to practice restraint, Billy helps by being his usual asshole self, and Robin has a revelation.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington
Comments: 50
Kudos: 510





	handlebar mustaches and chinstrap beards

It’s a completely ordinary day in Hawkins, Indiana. The sky is clear, the birds are singing, and the most exciting news for the past few weeks is how Chief Hopper busted a bunch of idiots who tried to throw a rave in the ruins of Starcourt Mall. It’s mundane, almost _boring_ , and Robin Buckley wonders if this is the universe’s ironic sense of humor coming into play because she genuinely feels like she is two seconds away from losing her shit. 

“Oh, _Robin_ , you’ve put on weight!”

“Hey, Aunt Caroline,” Robin says, with a too-bright smile and a whole lot of teeth, because that’s been Aunt Caroline’s greeting for her ever since she turned ten and at this point it hardly stings. 

She’s a fucking polyglot, _thank you_. 

They’re in the crowded, newly-opened diner strategically placed near her former high school, but that doesn’t stop Aunt Caroline from standing up from the booth in a swirl of skirts and wrapping Robin up in a big hug. Afterwards, she holds Robin at arms length for approximately five uncomfortable seconds of intense scrutiny, and then she places her well-manicured hands against Robin’s cheeks and _squeezes_ like motherfucker.

“My goodness!” Aunt Caroline says, squeezing and pinching Robin’s cheeks. “You look so beautiful! So much like me!”

“Thanks,” Robin manages to force out, garbled through her squished cheeks, and it’s almost rote at this point: Robin, you’ve put on weight, you look so beautiful, you look like _me_ , and Robin internally sighs because the next in that order, without fail is: 

“So! Any boys?” Aunt Caroline asks brightly. 

Fuck.

“Hundreds,” Robin says blandly. 

“Robin!” Aaand _there_ ’s the extra hard pinch to her cheeks. Ow. 

A little behind her and standing a polite distance away, Robin can feel Steve Harrington just _dying_ to say something, but one of the reasons she allowed him to accompany her was silence under pain of death. That’s still going to hold even now, when he knows that the reason Robin’s been trying to drown herself in the bathroom of Family Videos is to avoid an incredibly vain, seemingly harmless woman who looks like she gives really good hugs, which: no. 

“You know I can cover for you, right?” Steve had said, because she’d told him about this impromptu meetup in the tones of someone reading their own funeral rites. “I mean, if you wanted to get off early to be really sure you’re not late - ”

“Oh fuck, no,” Robin had recoiled. “I hope I get there five minutes before they leave and not a _second_ earlier.”

“Why?” Steve had looked too intrigued and a little concerned. It was the second that really made him stubborn.

Right now, Robin brings a hand behind her back and casually flips him off.

Steve barely represses a snort, and that proves to be his undoing when Aunt Caroline, ever vigilant to the presence of potential husbands for her niece, swivels her head and then zeroes in on him like a bloodhound. He freezes, stays very still as the woman takes in her appearance, eyeing him from head to toe, slow and dragging and assessing…

… and it was at that moment that Robin realizes she may have made a mistake bringing Steve Harrington here. 

Aunt Caroline’s eyes take on a familiar gleam.

Oh, shit. 

With dawning horror, Robin takes a mental step back and sees what her aunt sees: the stupid hair that always, always seems tousled just the right amount, the bright eyes, the expressive mouth, the expensive wool jacket he threw over his uniform in his hurry to leave with Robin.

Oh, shit. _Oh, shit_. 

King Steve, Babysitter of the Century, Platonic Dingus of her Heart. She’d genuinely forgotten, after all the shit they’ve been through, that Steve Harrington is objectively _good-looking_.

“Hello,” Steve says, recovering quickly, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” and he walks over to shake her hand. Her aunt kindly deigns to accept by releasing one of her claws from Robin’s cheeks. He continues, oblivious to the coming danger, “I’m Steve Harrington, Robin’s - ”

“He _-llo_ , young man,” Aunt Caroline interrupts, looking fascinated. Robin can pinpoint the exact moment the woman connects the dots in an _extremely wrong way_ and -

“Oh, Robin,” Aunt Caroline says, brightening. “Is this your boyfriend?”

“ _No_ ,” Robin and Steve say at the same time. 

Aunt Caroline’s face falls. “No?”

“Boyfriend?” a voice echoes, and Robin’s mother breaks through the crowd, carrying two trays overflowing with burgers, fries, and three towering milkshakes. “Who has a - shit!” and she barely gets the trays out of the way when a little boy goes barreling right past her, laughing like a maniac. 

Robin shakes off Aunt Caroline’s hands just as Steve swoops in to help her mom. He grabs the tray with the milkshakes on one hand and steadies Emily Buckley by the arm with the other, exhibiting an unusually fluid grace he now normally uses for fighting monsters. It looks annoyingly dashing, _fuck_ , and she can practically _feel_ Aunt Caroline’s swooning.

Robin swears under her breath.

“Who - thank you, Steve - who has a boyfriend?” Robin’s mother asks as the trays are quickly deposited on the table.

“Emily! is it true? Is this boy not my niece’s boyfriend?” Aunt Caroline all but demands, turning to face her sister.

“Uh, I am definitely not Robin’s boyfriend,” Steve says quickly, backing away from her line of sight to stand next to Robin. If it were any other situation, she’d have no qualms about laughing at the incredulous ‘what the fuck’ on his face. As it stands, though, Aunt Caroline has a history of harassing all the boys she deems worthy of her beloved niece whenever she’s here. She also has a history of _leaving_ Robin with the wreckage of previously good friendships when she goes back to L.A. So.

“Steve,” Robin says instead, as evenly as she can, “is _not_ my boyfriend.”

“You know you don’t have to hide, dear, I won’t _harass_ the poor boy - ”

“Steve is not my daughter’s boyfriend, Caroline,” Emily says patiently, used to her sister’s matchmaking. She shoots Robin a warning look, quelling Robin’s response to her aunt’s _obviously outrageous proclamation_. “I told you on the phone. There’s - ”

“Really, Robin!” Aunt Caroline exclaims, whirling around to face her, imploring, like it’s a goddamn travesty to not date the likes of Steve Harrington. “Why not? He looks like a fine man!”

Behind her sister, Emily drops the patient facade and facepalms. 

_Because I’m gay_ , _Caroline,_ Robin wants to yell, but her aunt’s the type of woman who thinks that spinsterhood is the curse of the devil and that homosexuals are marked to _be_ devils, so her knowing all about Robin’s general apathy towards dudes will probably cause a stroke. 

“Why ever yes?” Robin counters instead, crossing her arms in exasperation. “Seriously, Aunt Caroline, you do this every time you visit to every boyyou see within, like, a mile radius of my person!”

“I do not!” Aunt Caroline has the audacity to look offended.

“Yes, you do! Do you remember Kevin?”

“Oh, honey, you know I was joking. Kevin had buck teeth and bowlegs so curved he can notch an arrow with it!”

“What about Dave? Dave from biology? Or Gary, our ex-neighbor? Or Sam? Do you remember Sam? He was the band’s bassist and he was - ”

“ - positively hideous,” Aunt Caroline cuts in, ignoring Robin’s outraged expression. She shudders dramatically, because everything about her has to _be_ dramatic, from her whirlwind romance to a philandering Hollywood producer to her penchant for meddling in other people’s business to the way she beams beatifically and openly at Steve and says, _“Unlike this one,”_ teetering precariously between appreciative and uncomfortable.

Steve cracks an uneasy smile. “Well, I - ”

And then it barrels past creepy and straight into the territory of _what the fuck_ when she tosses personal space out the window and steps nearer, cupping Steve’s face with both hands. 

Robin has Steve’s shoulder pressed lightly against hers. They’d probably drifted closer in the last few minutes, she realizes, in a way that probably doesn’t help dissuade her aunt’s meddling but _definitely_ helps ground her enough to keep her from completely losing her shit. It’s unintentional for the most part, silent support that she’s grateful for, but it also means that Robin can feel the exact moment Steve goes rigid, hear the smallest intake of breath. 

It’s been three months since the Mindflayer shitshow, and the world has been kind enough to their skins that they have only the smallest of scars left from their near-death experience, but giant bloodthirsty monsters from a parallel dimension aren’t exactly conducive to the development of a well-adjusted psyche. Like, case in point: It’s kind of hard to appreciate being touched by total strangers when you’ve recently had the shit beaten out of you by angry Russians. Creepy touching just _doesn’t fly_.

“You are a good-looking young man,” Aunt Caroline announces, and her hands migrate to his shoulders, patting him approvingly like a buyer before a bidding. “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?”

“I’m sure Steve has other plans, Caroline.” Emily is now frowning, the humor gone from her face. “And they’re _friends_. That’s all. Please don’t make it weird.” She’s possibly realizing that there’s more to her sister’s meddling than she’s privy to. Robin’s mother hadn’t known about Sam, who was one of Robin’s closest friends and a once-frequent visitor to their house. His absence had been obvious, and Robin hadn’t told her the truth when she asked why their nerdy little band was suddenly dissolved.

“What’s a harmless dinner between friends, yes?” Aunt Caroline smiles, teeth white and gleaming.

She’s going to push this, Robin realizes. She’s going to push this issue like always until Steve caves in or nopes out or until Robin goes mad or until her husband comes begging for her to go back to LA. 

At that moment, the shopbell rings, announcing a new customer, and a flash of blonde hair and black leather jacket catches Robin’s eye. Billy Hargrove steps into the diner, and almost immediately there’s a change in the atmosphere of the room. Aside from the chief, Max’s brother was the only known survivor of the so-called fire that consumed Starcourt Mall. They’d both been confined for a solid month recovering from injuries. The difference is that someone had leaked the information that Hargrove was found bleeding on the burnt ground, used fireworks scattered around him like confetti. And so, as opposed to Hopper’s solid outpouring of support, Hargrove's case is peppered with a few insidious whispers of pyromania and murder. 

She sees him, sometimes, in the months following that disaster, usually as Max’s chauffeur to and from the semi-regular get-togethers in Steve’s big house or in Joyce’s small home. The closest they’d come to personal interaction was a few nods of acknowledgement, separated by asphalt and the windshield of his car. Steve once told her Hargrove's been working in the autoshop, a mere block away from where the two of them work. It’s where he brought his car to be fixed, and he said that during those weeks there were times where he and Hargrove talked and times where they don’t speak at all, sitting in weirdly comfortable silence. Steve told her that Hargrove never talks about what happened, that he’s different, and that the only time he’d been anything close to his former aggressive self was when he refused to accept payment for the repairs, pushing away the money like it had burned. 

For the most part, Hargrove has done absolutely nothing to deny or confirm all the rumors. He’s usually been ignoring or coldly shutting down anyone who asked, and whether or not it’s his intention, it adds to the intrigue. He’s always been handsome, Billy Hargrove, but where before his is the type of attractiveness that draws you in with promises of wild nights and a good time, now he’s attractive because he’s notorious, possibly dangerous, and there’s the risk of having your head bitten off if you try to come close. 

_Boyfriend._ Robin thinks, then: _Asshole_. 

Aha. Right. 

“It’s _not_ going to be harmless,” Robin says forcefully, and it’s amazing how calm she sounds.

“Oh?” Aunt Caroline says, challenging. “Why not?”

“Because someone is _actually_ going to get jealous this time, Aunt Caroline,” Robin says, and she injects what she hopes is the right amount of emphasis into her voice and places a hand on her aunt’s arm, squeezing meaningfully. 

“Someone is - oh!” Aunt Caroline squeals, and like a fish attracted to juicier bait her aunt releases Steve and turns her full attention to Robin. “ _Who is it?_ ” 

“Wait, what?” Steve says. 

Hargove is going to have to go past their little group on his way to the counter.

“It’s new,” Robin warns, and steps smoothly between Aunt Caroline and Steve, walking her aunt backwards. She clasps her hands in front of her chest, looks at her aunt with wide, insistent eyes. “Like I’m telling you it’s really, really new. I don’t want to ruin it. I have never really dated anyone before - ”

Hargove is now walking towards them.

“Of course, I won’t ruin it, silly girl!” Aunt Caroline is saying. “Can you invite him to dinner?”

He and Robin make eye contact, and then he takes in the tableau, expression unchanging. Robin pastes on a wide smile that borders on maniacal. 

“You can invite him yourself,” Robin says brightly, and she steps past her aunt, past her mom, and walks briskly up to Hargove to meet him halfway. The instant her face is out of view she lets out a brief, silent snarl.

Hargrove’s only response is to raise an eyebrow. 

“ _Play along_ ,” Robin hisses, before she brings back the wide smile, sidesteps neatly to his side, and turns back to group. She makes a show of wrapping an arm around Billy’s waist as they walk together.

“Aunt Caroline, mom, Steve,” Robin says, and the owners of those names look scandalized, suspicious, and shocked, respectively. “This is Billy Hargove.” She takes a deep breath and then she laughs, makes it breathless and excited. “We’re dating.” 

And Billy Hargrove, showing his innate ability to shift smoothly into bullshit, wastes no second in looping an arm around Robin’s shoulders in turn and pulling her close. 

“Hi,” Hargrove says, and smiles with _all_ his teeth.

“That was the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of my life,” Steve announces, after the two sisters have gone home. Robin doesn’t know if her mom had left all the food accidentally in her haste to keep her sister from molesting teenagers or if it’s like, an apology for having a sister that actually _has_ a huge probability of molesting teenagers, but the three of them had wasted no time in starting on the fries and burgers.

“Tell me it’s not just me. It’s not just me, right?” Steve continues.

“Pretty sure she tried to squeeze my ass,” Hargrove says conversationally, sitting beside Robin on the other side of the booth.

“I saw you going for a handshake,” Steve says, and he pushes the plate of fries to him in sympathy. “She tried to pull you in like an octopus. It was pretty gross.”

“Well, she couldn’t. Didn’t pull me into dinner, too,” Hargrove ignores the plate and tries to swipe the fries in Steve’s hand instead. He misses, grins when Steve flips him off in reply. “Didn’t pull me into _anything_. It was funny watching her try though.”

“She’s a nightmare,” Robin says, and she lets out a tired laugh, leaning her head back and blinking absently at the ceiling. “You have to say ‘no’ outright or else she’s going to bulldoze all over your really nice ‘I don’t think so’ and ‘maybe next time’ and ‘I have to decline’. Say it loudly and firmly and make it clear that it really comes from _you_ , because if it came from _me_ , she’ll say I’m being stupid and then she’ll make it ten times worse. By the end of her stay we’ll either be fucking engaged on her terms or her meddling will be so bad we won’t be speaking again forever.” 

Steve just stares. “I’m not sure I want to know why that sounds so incredibly specific.”

“You don’t,” Robin says solemnly, because that’s a story for another time, preferably with lots of alcohol, and also because there are more important things to say. She kicks Steve lightly underneath the table to really get his attention. “Sorry about that. I honestly forgot that you fit, like, her super specific requirements for a nephew-in-law.” 

Steve looks like he doesn’t know whether to be offended or pleased. “You’re such a shithead,” is what he settles with, but he kicks her back just the same so she figures they’re square. 

“You could’ve just moved away, Harrington,” Hargrove says, cutting in. He’s not looking at them, unwrapping the burger like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Out of all the times to plant your feet.”

“She’s Robin’s aunt. I couldn’t just say no!” 

“God, I can’t believe your problem now is that you’re trying _not_ to be a dick,” Robin says, unable to help the fondness out of her. “Like you’re actively trying to be nice? Who the hell are you?”

“Screw you, Buckley. I’m always nice,” Steve says.

Robin laughs, and she feels the other boy shift at her side. “I gotta say,” she says, “You really came through on that one, Hargrove - ” and she turns to him, to grin and say thank you for not dropping the ball, for playing along when he’s never really spoken to Robin before, but the words stop in her throat when she sees his face.

Hargrove’s gaze is darting between her and Steve, an odd look in his eyes. She doesn’t know him well enough to parse it before it disappears, replaced with a smirk. “It was nothing. You looked pissed and Harrington looked harassed,” he says instead, his tone mild and nonchalant and suddenly weird in ways Robin can’t figure out. “It wasn’t hard to know what you want.” 

Steve snorts, oblivious to the subtle tension. “Like she didn’t want to harass you too. Did you see her? I really didn’t know if she wanted you for Robin or for herself.”

“Everyone wants me, Harrington,” Hargrove drawls. “Keep up.”

“Sure they do,” Steve says dryly, but the look he gives Billy is almost warm. He takes a sip from the milkshake, frowns when only a gurgling noise comes out, and makes an indignant noise. “Yeah, no, I deserve more than this,” he says decisively, and he stands up and looks at them both. “You guys want anything?”

“Beer,” Hargrove says immediately.

“You get juice,” Steve says, saccharine sweet, and he only laughs when Hargrove flips him off. “Robin?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Robin says, after a moment, because she’s still trying to figure out if there’s a line she accidentally crossed. “Thanks, man.” And with that they watch him shrug and dive into the crowd, leaving the two of them alone. 

There’s like five seconds of increasingly uncomfortable silence. And then - 

“Okay, what the hell is wrong with you,” Robin bursts out, just as Hargrove says, “So how long have you and pretty boy been together?”

They stop, staring at each other. 

“Why,” Robin starts, stops, closes her mouth when she fails to continue, then: “ _What_.” 

“Wait,” Hargrove says, and now he’s turning to fully face her, “So you guys are _not_ together? Am I getting this right?” There’s this weird look in his eyes, intense and somehow stupidly familiar. Robin just can’t _figure it out_. 

“Dude, no?” Robin says, incredulous, and she angles her body to face him too. “What made you think - ”

“You looked pissed and Harrington looked harassed,” Hargrove repeats, raising his eyebrows. “And he talks about you all the fucking time. I figured you were fighting and needed a really asshole fake boyfriend to act like some kind of decoy while you guys attempt a happily ever after,” He crosses his arms. “You can’t exactly sort your shit out if there’s a harpy breathing down your neck in the same room.”

“I needed a fake boyfriend to get the harpy to focus on something other than creepily face-touching Steve Harrington,” Robin corrects him. “You didn’t see her. She was _all up in his space_ and he was like two seconds from a fucking panic attack.” Hargrove’s lips press into an unhappy line. Robin cocks her head. “Yeah, I was mad as hell too, but I knew from experience that she won’t listen to me. So: One-time fake boyfriend, good-looking enough to catch her attention, blunt enough to tell her to fuck off when the attention gets creepy. Capice?”

Hargrove shakes his head. “Good-looking enough to catch her attention, blunt enough to tell her to fuck off, huh?” he says, but it’s better, his strange mood reluctantly giving way to mild amusement. “I’ll put that in my resume, thanks.”

“No need,” Robin says, rolling her eyes at that statement. “You don’t have to do it again. I just really needed her to get the hell away from him.” And, well, she’s also maybe reeling at the thought that _anyone_ would mistake her and Steve for a thing. God, Max’s brother is weird. 

“What would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”

“Bodychecked her,” Robin says, shrugging. Hargrove lets out a disbelieving snort, which: “No, I’m serious. Bodycheck disguised as a pratfall. Faked appendicitis or like, explosive diarrhea.”

“Good thing I was there, then,” Hargrove says, “because you’re a reallyshitty actress, Buckley, and if she succeeded you and Harrington would make the ugliestbabies,” and, honestly, he’s basically asking for it so Robin has no choice but to try and kick him in the shins. 

“ _Excuse you_ , I am an excellent liar and I would make really cute hypothetical babies, fuck you,” Robin says, letting out a triumphant sound when one kick connects and he swears. “Just not with Harrington, gross, what the hell, Hargrove, you can _have him_ if you want.” And she says it good-naturedly, is the thing, like plain old ribbing between unlikely friends, so she would have missed his reaction if she hadn’t glanced at his face just as she says the last joking sentence, or if Hargrove hadn’t still been turned towards her, rubbing his abused shin.

But, well, he _was_ turned towards her and she _did_ glance at his face, so she sees his expression, there and gone really quick, and suddenly it clicks. 

“Oh, my god, you were _jealous,_ ” Robin breathes, shocked, and Hargrove stiffens at her sudden exclamation. “Excuse me?” he asks, and before she could stop herself, before she can even _think_ of the consequences of saying it, she says, soft but undeniable: “You like him.”

Hargrove’s face immediately slams closed. 

And Robin backtracks, acutely aware that she messed up by just fucking. _Blurting it out loud._ “I didn’t - ”

“I don’t,” Hargrove says coldly, and Robin flinches at the venom in his voice, even as her chest aches from the familiar way his eyes flit around their surroundings, paranoid and panicked. To make sure no one was listening, to make sure she hadn’t just accidentally outed him in small town Hawkins, Indiana. She hadn’t realized how - how at ease he’d been until he’s not. 

“Hargrove, no, I’m sorry,” Robin says quickly, reaching out a hand to place on his arm. “I understand - ” and she falters when Hargrove snatches his arm away. 

“There is nothing to understand,” Hargrove snarls, and he moves to get out of the booth. “There is nothing to understand and you’re _wrong_ and I’m _leaving_ ,” and Robin knows if he goes there won’t be any going back, that he won’t ever talk to her again, that he’s probably not going to talk to _Steve_ again, because of anger or denial or fear, and the thought sends her scrambling -

“Me too,” Robin blurts out. “Hargrove, we - me too,” and hopes to all that’s holy that he fucking _gets_ what she’s trying to tell him.

Hargrove freezes, halfway out of the booth. “What?”

“I said, me too,” Robin says, heart pounding in her chest, and she watches as Hargrove slowly, slowly goes back to his seat. “I’m sorry,” she says, and when he just stares at her with stunned suspicion she makes a helpless, useless gesture in the air. “I wasn’t - it wasn’t an ‘Aha! Got you, freak!’ moment. I don’t do that, jesus, I just,” She tries to smile reassuringly, but she thinks it comes out as more of a pained grimace, fuck. “Uh, you made the exact same face I did when Tammy Thompson was all over Steve and his stupid hair back in high school? So. That’s how I knew. Just. Recognition.” 

Hargrove just looks at her after she finishes babbling, unreadable, and for a nerve-wrecking beat or two, she genuinely thinks he’s going to up and leave.

Then:

“Tammy Thompson?” he says, and with painstaking, excruciating slowness his expression thaws into something close to his familiar resting asshole face. “She’s a total dud,” he adds, and even if the lightness is a little forced and the sneering judgement is awkwardly overcompensating it makes Robin kind of want to cry, recognizing the olive branch for what it is.

“Steve Harrington?” Robin retorts. “Really?” but it’s absolutely ruined when she sounds almost giddy with relief. 

Hargrove’s response is to break into a low laugh, slumping on the booth with his head in his hands. If the laugh comes out soft and a little hysterical, well. She’s definitely not going to be the one to judge. 

“Does he know?” Hargrove asks, when his laughter finally subsides.

“Yeah, yeah, he does,” Robin says, a little faint. She feels a bit surreal, actually, after hearing the same words she heard from Steve months ago from Hargrove himself. She wants to take it as some kind of sign that this is something good. “He doesn’t care,” she says firmly, “And, okay, first off: it’s up to you if you want to admit your - _feelings_ \- or whatever. Hell, I know it’s also up to you if you want to let him know about _anything_ , period, but.” She thinks about Steve’s acceptance back in that dingy mall bathroom, how it had lasted through the drugs and the monsters and into the banality of normal life, into the _now_ , where there’s no death-defying situations binding their friendship through sheer survival. She thinks about how she’s sure she made a friend for life. “He’s okay, is what I’m saying,” she finally says. “He’s a good egg.” 

“A good egg,” Hargrove says, his lips twitching. “Stellar advertisement there. Feeling really good about my choice, Buckley.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Robin says, laughing, “you know what I mean.”

“I didn’t notice, you know,” Hargrove says, when Robin's laughter trails off, and the weight behind it makes Robin stop altogether. “I’ve been staying away. I’ve been trying to stay away and not fuck up and fucking _kill any more people_ until I leave this town or this country or this _life_ and then he comes into the shop with that stupid car and stupid face and the next thing I know,” he stops, tries to form the words and gives up, running a hand through his hair. “Well, you know.” 

Robin stares at him for a second. “Hargrove, you didn’t kill those people.”

Hargrove slides her a flat look. “There are thirty families calling out for blood that just beg to differ.” 

“That’s The Mindflayer,” Robin shoots back. “We’ve all seen what it can do and we saw what _you_ did to keep it from killing El. Don’t sell yourself short. None of us blame you.” 

Hargrove just shrugs, a stubborn tilt to his jaw that screams his refusal to believe her, which: okay. In the dark of their impromptu sleepovers and fueled by large amounts of alcohol, Jonathan, Nancy, and Steve had told Robin about everything she’d missed while being blissfully normal back in high school: about the Upside Down, about El and Will, about _Barb_. Even now, they’re wary of the dark, they have nightmares and spiked bats and tiny handguns, and they say Barb's name with the reverence of the guilty, even after all the shit they've seen. Maybe that kind of understanding takes a long time. For now, at least, Robin’s going to let this go. 

Doesn’t mean she’s going to let him brood all over it, though.

She kicks him on the leg again, ignores the answering scowl, and says, “Come with us.”

“What?”

“To Steve’s place,” Robin clarifies, “Your sister and her nerdy little friends are at his house right now, because it’s got a full fridge, no parents, and no danger of walking in on anyone’s mother and the Chief of Police making googly eyes on the dinner table.” She shoots him a flat look when she catches him about to refuse, presses in and says, “Nancy and Jonathan are still in New York, but I’ll be there, Steve will be there, and it is definitely going to be better than going to dinner with Aunt Caroline. Come on, dude, it’ll be fun.”

He’s staring at her like she’s grown a second head, and Robin wonders if he’s surprised because she’s the one who asked. It’s not like the invitation itself is new. She’s pretty sure Max has been bugging him about this since forever. Pretty sure _Steve_ is, too. Only sheer stubborn persistence stops them from completely being pushed away, which Robin thinks is lucky. Hargrove doesn’t strike her as the type to _make_ friends easily, is the thing, and what little he had before probably went with the wind the moment rumors about him being a murderer started appearing. And now that she thinks about it, maybe part of Hargrove’s problem is that he has nothing to do _but_ brood and drown in self-recrimination, go home and go to work and go to sleep and do it all over again, and he’s not going to do a damn thing about it because he thinks it’s completely deserved. 

Hargrove’s about to reply - a flat no, Robin’s sure - when he’s interrupted by Steve finally coming back from the counter. He’s carrying way, way more than his coveted milkshake - like three greasy paper bags more - and he puts it all down on the table with a grunt, followed shortly by dropping down on his own seat.

“Are you feeding an army?” Hargrove asks him instead, deftly ignoring the way Robin side-eyes him at the _blatant change_ of topic. 

“Middle schoolers,” Steve replies, which is … probably the same thing, appetite-wise. “They know we’re in the new diner. Will called me.”

“Wait, did they try to cook?” Robin asks, momentarily distracted by his long suffering tone, and she barks out a laugh when Steve just hangs his head. 

“I think I almost lost my house." 

“Taught Max how to cook a long time ago and it was a disaster,” Hargrove offers. “She can definitely put out grease fires though.” 

Steve snorts. “Makes sense. I could hear her yelling about idiots and Dustin yelling about starvation.” He eyes the food on the table. “You think this will be enough or should we go get pizza?” He pauses, frowning. “Or maybe I should cook? I think I can do it.” 

“I asked Hargrove if he wants to go with us,” Robin says abruptly. She deftly avoids the kick he sends her way and asks, really, really offhandedly, “You’ve been asking him, too, right?” 

“What?” Steve asks absently, before the rest of the sentence catches up to him and he perks up, looking at them both. “Only for _ages_ , Robin.” To Hargrove, he says: “Oh my god, you _dipshit_ , did you finally change your mind?” 

“I don’t - ” Hargrove starts, falters briefly in the face of Steve’s grin, flushing slightly, and ends up crossing his arms and glaring. Robin marvels at how completely, _stupidly_ obvious it is now that she knows. “They don’t want me there,” he says instead, but it’s not a no, Robin notes, and by the look on Steve’s face she’s sure he notices too.

“Uh, yes, they do,” Steve says. “I know for a fact that Max has been bugging you to go with her. El’s been asking about you too, and I think it will help with the other nerds if you like, stop immediately leaving or staying in the car like a creeper.” 

“I am not a creeper,” Hargrove growls, but he also doesn’t deny anything else, and Steve pounces on the opening. 

“Come on, Billy,” Steve wheedles, and it’s hilarious, the way he leans across the table with an unholy glint in his eyes. Robin nearly laughs when he reaches out and starts poking Hargrove in the forearm. “Dude, seriously, Max misses you, you asshole, and I know you do too - ”

“I don’t miss - _ow_ , Harrington, stop kicking my fucking leg and _stop poking me_ ,” Hargrove demands. He catches Steve’s poking hand in his, squeezes it once in warning before he releases it to slap it away. 

Steve’s saying something, and Hargrove’s swearing because Steve is apparently _still_ kicking, and the two idiots are obviously still arguing, but Robin’s not listening anymore, too absorbed at what she saw: the quick barely-there widening of Steve’s eyes when Hargrove grabbed his hand, the twitch in his fingers when Hargrove released it, and the way he now has it tucked against his chest in a casual crossing of arms, hidden from view.

Last week, Steve used his newly repaired car for the first time. She recalls how Steve had looked a little wistful then, a stark contrast against the way Keith had been green with envy and how everyone else had been fawning over the car’s flawless surface. She thinks about the fact that bitching about Hargove had slowly become one of their favorite topics during work, how Steve’s been persistent about getting Hargrove out of his funks, and about how he’s completely _useless_ at holding Max back when someone insists Hargrove’s a murderer, because _he's_ also as angry as her, because he’s just as likely to get into fights. 

Oh, wow. _Oh, wow_. 

The pieces are sliding into a picture of possibility, one that Robin doesn’t even think these two realize is there. Robin’s not her aunt, goddammit, she’s not going to push people into something they don’t want or aren’t ready for. This is just … Hargrove saying yes to a stupid dinner, an open invitation to friends that he’s being too stubborn to consider. He doesn’t even have to actively engage in conversation right away, but at least he’ll be surrounded by people she’s a thousand percent sure aren’t looking at him like he’s a killer. In the aftermath of the mall incident, only the ability to lean on those who more or less went through the same shit as her prevented Robin from going crazy. She can’t imagine going through that alone.

(Robin really, _really_ wants Hargrove to fucking say yes to this stupid dinner, basically, and if something grows from there, well. That’s an entirely different thing altogether.)

“Why would I want to spend time with middle schoolers?” Hargrove is saying. 

“It’s not going to be just middle schoolers, you overdramatic dick. It’s _my_ _house_. Robin’s going to be there. _I’m_ going to be there!”

_“Taught Max how to cook a long time ago and it was a disaster,” Hargrove offered._

“Steve’s going to cook,” Robin blurts out. At Hargrove’s confused face, she says, “Steve is _terrible_ at cooking,” and she only pats Steve’s hand when he lets out a sound of protest. “Sorry, but you know it’s true. Do you remember last week? You tried to help Joyce cook and almost burned down the house.” She looks earnestly at Hargrove. “He messed up soup, dude. _Canned soup_.”

“It was taking too long! How was I supposed to know you can’t turn up the heat to make it go faster - ”

“Oh my god, that’s not - _Harrington_ ,” Hargrove says, exasperated, but he stands up. He stands up and slides out of the booth and grabs two of the giant, greasy paper bags and only shakes his head when Steve and Robin share a triumphant glance. 

“I see you two fuckers,” he says crankily, and scowls when the both of them just cheer. 

The diner’s still crowded. They end up walking almost in a line in order to get to the doors, going practically perpendicular against those waiting in front of the counter, first Steve then Hargrove then her. Near the exit, Robin nudges Hargrove and leans in. “Thanks,” she says, when Hargrove’s within hearing distance, and just because she can’t help it, she adds: “And good luck. I’m rooting for you.”

“That is _suspiciously_ ominous and perfectly confusing, Buckley,” Hargrove says, turning slightly towards her, and she sees the corner of a raised eyebrow. “Should I be scared?”

“It was meant to be _supportive_ , you dick,” Robin says, kicking him lightly on the calf. “I’m being supportive as fuck. You’re my completely heterosexual boyfriend, remember?”

“Gross,” Billy says blandly, but it holds absolutely no heat, and Robin laughs. 

**Author's Note:**

> can you imagine the potential these three assholes would have had. like. the _sheer chaotic energy_.


End file.
